Into the Fire
by Enji
Summary: G1. Prowl looses his senses - literally! - in an encounter with Thundercracker. What will the other Autobots do when they learn that said tactician can't use all his senses? Slash.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: There will be slash in this fic later, and the rating will go up. If that is not your cup of tea, do not read. Coming up with a title for this was hell, I finally stole a Springsteen song. Not that happy with it, but whatever. Can't seem to think of a summary either, I'll probably keep changing it.

Disclaimer: Don't own, please don't sue. (I don't have any money anyway.)

* * *

The battle had been fierce, violent and long, which was not an unusual thing, when it came to battling Decepticons. What was unusual, however, was the fact that no one had been hurt. As Megatron finally called a retreat, Ratchet for a glorious moment believed that he would not have to repair his friends this time. That this would be the one battle where no one needed to be sedated or tranquilised to help the pain, no one needed to have limbs reattached, and no one needed to see their friend in agony; and he himself wouldn't have the weight of responsibility on his shoulders.

Sadly, that was not to be. A certain Decepticon Seeker named Thundercracker, and a certain Autobot tactician named Prowl would see to that.

At the moment the jet was hiding behind a rock, nursing a damaged arm. He cursed the fact that his weapons were out of energy, but of course, so were Prowl's, which was the reason that they were fighting hand-to-hand. Whoever knew that the Autobot's second in command was such a good fighter though? The tactician had almost ripped his entire arm off, which was why Thundercracker was hiding from him. He could probably take to the sky and fly away, but that would be seen as cowardly by Megatron, and he was sure to be punished for it when he returned. Never mind that running away from battle seemed to be what Megatron did best himself. He weighed his chances. If he stayed here the Autobot would come after him, which also seemed a pretty bad idea. All right, so it was getting beaten up by Megatron or by the Autobot. Primus, this sucked. Then, all of a sudden, a thought came to him. Why hadn't he thought of it earlier? Thundercracker simply chalked it up to being distracted, and stepped out from the rock.

Prowl slowly crept towards the outcropping behind which Thundercracker was hiding. He knew he was a better hand-to-hand fighter, despite the jet's size, for he was both more agile and a lot faster, and knew how to use the large Decepticon's weight against him. If he could only lure the 'Con out in the open he knew he could take him down. He took another step as suddenly the Seeker appeared from behind the rock. For a moment Prowl halted, wondering what had possessed Thundercracker to step out like that, and then everything turned dark as the sonic boom from the Seeker hit him full on, the shockwave of it shorting out his sensors completely.

xxx

"I'm going to personally dismantle that 'Con the next time I see him," Ratchet grumbled for, literally, deaf ears, since Prowl could not hear him. One hand transformed into a multitool, Ratchet had opened up the side of Prowl's helmet and was fiddling around in the delicate wiring inside. Prowl himself sat absolutely still, looking slightly nervous, which probably wasn't all that strange considering the proximity of sharp tools to his head. He tensed slightly as Ratchet pulled out his tool, transformed his hand and picked up a device, the use of which was unknown to Prowl. His door wings twitched as he felt a small buzz in his head when Ratchet attached the thing to a circuit in his head, and then he nearly jumped of the berth as Jazz suddenly appeared in his field of vision.

"Sit still!" Ratchet admonished him automatically, and then glared at Jazz who just grinned unrepentantly, jumping up on the berth next to the Datsun.

"How's he doin', doc?" the saboteur asked.

"He'd be doing a lot better if he wasn't surprised like that by stupid mechs who act before they think," the medic grumbled.

"Oh, so he still can't hear, then?"

"No he can't, and he can't use most of his other sensors either, so he's rather… jittery. Which isn't making my job any easier." He pulled out the strange device and took a close look at the circuit it had been attached to.

Jazz giggled, to the consternation of Prowl who glared at him.

"Sorry Prowler," Jazz said even though he knew his friend couldn't hear him, "It's just that 'jittery' isn't a word anyone'd connect to ya."

Prowl just continued to glare at him in silence, probably thinking he was being made fun of. Seeing as he didn't get any answer from the tactician, Jazz turned to Ratchet after a few moments of silence.

"Hey Ratch, how come he doesn't say anything? His vocal processor ain't damaged, is it?"

Ratchet didn't look up from his work, peering intently at the circuit as he connected some kind of diagnosis scanner to a port connected to it.

"Hmm? No, I guess he just figures that since he can't hear what we're saying it doesn't make much sense to say anything either. It'd be a rather one-way discussion," Ratchet said as he pressed a button on the datapad he had in his hand, watching the readings and unconnecting the port once again. He sighed as he picked up a rather nasty-looking tool and began to pry what looked like a fried relay from Prowl's head, making said mech tense up slightly again. "There we go," he said as he managed to free the relay, discarding it in a bin next to the berth. "Pass me that box over there."

"You could say 'please'," Jazz said as he walked over to the indicated box, picking it up and handing it to the medic.

"I could, but since this is my med bay and you have to do what I say or get thrown out, I didn't really see the point in wasting energy on it," Ratchet said as he accepted the box from Jazz and looked through it for a moment before choosing the right kind of relay. He worked in silence for a little while, while Jazz sat playing a tune, kicking his legs against the side of the berth; and Prowl patiently endured Ratchet's prodding in his head.

"There," he finally said as he withdrew his hand and transformed it back into a real hand, and closed the small hatch. Prowl cocked his head slightly and looked at Ratchet.

"Prowl, can you hear what I'm saying now?" Ratchet asked, keeping a close look on the tacticians face. Prowl winced slightly.

"Yes," he answered. "Volume was a bit high though. I had to adjust it."

Ratchet nodded. "It's pretty normal for the exact adjustments to be a bit off after such a sonic shock. I'll just do a quick check to see that everything is within acceptable parameters. Just sit still, I need to get the scanner."

Prowl just nodded as Ratchet walked away to a cabinet by the opposite wall, then turned to look at Jazz, who smiled back at him.

"Glad to see you're back in the land of hearing," Jazz said with a happy grin.

"Unfortunately," Prowl replied as he recognized the music coming from Jazz's speakers (thankfully at a rather low volume). "Must you play that racket?"

"There's nothing wrong with this. It's Huey Lewis and the News, man, they're very popular," J replied somewhat defensively before noting the small smile on the tactician's lips.

"Just the fact that they have no sense of rhythm, pitch, harmony or melody. Not to mention the lyrics, which are grating at best–"

"Pfft. You have no appreciation for fine music." Jazz looked at Prowl with a defiant expression, arms crossed.

"I do. However, I do prefer music done by people who are not totally tone deaf."

Jazz waved a hand dismissively. "Whatever. You coming to the party tonight?"

"You mean spend the evening listening to _more_ of that noise you dare call music? Thanks, but no thanks."

"Aww, come on, Prowl! It'll be fun, I promise!"

"Your idea of 'fun' is not the same as mine, J. You know that."

"But everyone else will be there! Even Optimus said he might stop by. I will not let you sit on your own with only some boring reports to keep you company while everyone else is having fun." Jazz put on a stern expression and looked at Prowl disapprovingly.

"My reports aren't boring," Prowl protested weakly.

"I've read them. I'm sorry, buddy, but they are. And you _are_ coming to the party if I so have to drag you there by your door wings." Jazz paused for a second, glancing at the CMO who was returning to the berth, scanner in hand. "Ratchet's coming, aren't you, Ratch?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Ratchet said as he pressed a button on the scanner, and hummed when a small light on it blinked red a few times before turning to a steady green. "Now just hold still for a moment," he added as he slowly moved the scanner over Prowl's left audio.

"So," Jazz continued, "Either you come to the party, at least for a little while–"

"Or you'll drag me there. You already mentioned it," Prowl said, trying to ignore the buzzing of the scanner so close to his audio.

"Well, maybe. Or I'll simply follow you around and play _The Power of Love_ on repeat."

"That's hardly a threat, Jazz. I outrank you; I could just order you to stop."

Jazz shrugged. "All right then. What about the others? I mean, I know several of them were a bit worried about you. You should at least put in an appearance, show that you're alive an' kickin'." He 

paused for a moment for effect."I think Bluestreak would be _terribly_ disappointed if you didn't show up."

Prowl glared at Jazz, and the saboteur knew he had won this little battle. It was slightly underhanded of him, but everyone knew the tactician had a hard time denying the young gunner anything, despite the obvious difference in rank between them. Then again, no one liked seeing Bluestreak disappointed, so Prowl was hardly the only one who sometimes found himself acting rather soft around the youngster.

"Fine," he said. "I'll come. But it will only be for a short while."

"Yes! You won't regret it, I promise." Prowl just let out a non-committal sound as Ratchet moved the scanner to his other audio. "It'll be great," Jazz continued. "I mean, we really gave those Cons a beating this time. And no casualties on our side except for your little mishap… ooh; it'll be so much fun!" Jazz was practically bouncing on the side of the berth, making Ratched look at him sternly.

"Jazz, stop shaking the berth or I'll give you a _real_ reason to be in here," he said as he finally put down the scanner. "Well, Prowl. Everything seems fine with your audios according to the scanner, but you're the best judge of it, really.

"Well, my hearing is fine, but I still don't have any other sensors online."

"That would be because I haven't fixed them yet. It will take quite some time too; your audios were easy, just a fried relay, but those other things need more work."

"So I'll be staying here all night?" Prowl sounded both dejected and hopeful, torn between the unpleasantness of being in the med bay, and having a valid reason not to go to the party.

"Nope," Ratchet said, putting his tools away, cleaning each thoroughly before he placed them in their appointed rack.

"But you said–"

"You won't be staying all night because I'm tired, and fixing – not to mention _calibrating_ – your sensors will take hours, and I have a party to attend. I can slot you in first thing in the morning if you wish, but being without those senses won't kill you so you can wait until then."

Prowl opened his mouth as to protest, but one look at Ratchet's face made him shut it again with a click.

"Good. Now get out of here." Ratchet made a shooing motion with his hands, and Prowl silently got off the berth and left the med bay, Jazz in tow.

Once they were in the corridor Jazz threw a sideways glace at the Datsun.

"Soo… you feelin' all right?"

"Perfectly fine, thank you," Prowl answered in a clipped-off tone, keeping his pace down the hallway.

"Uh-huh. Right. You want me to believe that not having several of your senses, you feel 'perfectly fine'? I don't think so."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I–"

"So, there's no reason then why you're walking slower than normally, or that you took extra care while walking through the door to make sure you wouldn't hit your door wings? Or that you keep looking around more than usual?"

Prowl frowned at Jazz, but then sighed, door wings drooping a bit.

"I do admit it does feel a bit… unusual, but I like to believe that I'm adaptable enough to function without those senses, except in the case of a full-scale Decepticon attack. The possibility of that happening right now are just 2.36 per cent though, and–"

"Ooh, never tell me the odds!" Jazz exclaimed, putting his hands over his audios. Prowl halted for a brief moment, looking confused.

"What?" he said after a moment of trying-to-get-into-Jazz's-CPU-and-failing-spectacularly. "What odds? Why don't you want to hear the odds?"

"Come on, Prowl!" Jazz said, trying not to laugh at the clueless expression on the tactician's face. "It was a quote!" He punched the other lightly in the shoulder. "Don't tell me you don't recognize it."

"Can't say I do," Prowl answered with a straight face. Jazz groaned.

"It's from Star Wars! Or, well, more accurately, it's from The Empire Strikes Back. Ya know, when they try to navigate through the asteroid field–", he wove his hand up and down in imitation of a spaceship, "–like whoosh, and Threepio says like "the possibility of surviving is… umm… well… a _lot_ to one, and Solo–"

Prowl held up a hand to stop the almost Bluestreak-worthy tirade. "Please Jazz; I have no idea what you're talking about.

"Wait, what? You don't? You've never seen Star Wars?"

"No."

"Really? But you must! It's great fun. See, they fight with these really cool lightsabers, which are swords made out of laser or energy or something, I don't think it's really explained, but who cares, it's wicked! 'Course, it painfully obvious the spaceships are models and so on, but the amazing thing is that it doesn't really matter." Jazz smiled from audio to audio as he eagerly tried to explain the awesomeness of the movie.

"That sounds really great, Jazz," Prowl answered sounding slightly distracted. "However, I think I can find more productive things to do with my free time than watching Earth movies."

"Hasn't anyone told you that you're not _supposed_ to do anything productive on your free time? That's why they call it _free_ time, ya know. Time to be free from boring responsibilities and such."

"You and I have very different views of the definition of 'boring', as I'm sure I've told you a hundred times already," Prowl said as the pair entered the rec room, where Blaster was already setting up a huge sound system in a corner. The boom box grinned at Jazz, a bunch of cables in one hand.

"Hey Jazz, could you give me a hand with those? I need to plug them in there at the back, but I'm too big to get in there, and I don't want to move this speaker again, I just got it in a perfect position," he said in a loud voice to be heard above the susurrus of voices from the mechs that had already gathered.

"Sure thing," Jazz answered, then turned towards Prowl. "Well, I'll see you in a while, then? You did promise to come to the party, and I'm going to hold you to it."

"I remember."

"All right then. See you!" Jazz said as he turned away from the tactician who started pouring himself some energon and then promptly left the rec room, assumingly to get some peace and quiet before he would have to come down to the party.  
Jazz sauntered up to Blaster.

"All right, what do you need me to do?"

xxx

"So, there I was, with my rifle absolutely useless, doing my best trying to hide from the 'Cons, when I turn around this boulder and see _Rumble_ standing there. And to make things better, he's so focused on the battle he didn't even notice me, so I just walked up, whacked him in the head with my rifle. You should have seen it; he just fell straight forward like something from a cartoon," – Sideswipe made a falling gesture with his hand and slammed in down on the table, palm first. – "So I figured he wouldn't need his gun anymore and decided to steal it."

Jazz snorted at the thought of the cassette falling like a felled tree, and took a gulp from his cube of Energon. His head was spinning in a very pleasant way, indicating that he was starting to get intoxicated from the high grade he was imbibing. So far the party had been really great, there was music, people were happy, and so far nothing had been broken. It was still pretty early, which meant that most of the mechs were just sitting around, talking about the battle, just like the group around his table was doing right now. The heavy drinking and subsequent debauchery would come later, when people would go from tipsy to flat-out drunk.

"Anyway," Sideswipe continued, "that's when I discovered that weapons designed for pesky mini-cassettes aren't really compatible with us normal-sized 'bots."

"Couldn't reach the trigger?" Jazz asked, mirth in his voice.

"Nope. No matter how I tried, I couldn't fit my finger in the trigger guard. It was really frustrating, finally getting my hands on a weapon and not being able to fire it!"

The 'bots around the table all laughed at the red warrior's predicament.

"So," Smokescreen said, "what did you do then?"

"Ah, you see, that was when my genial mind decided to favour me with the obvious solution." Sideswipe straightened up with a proud grin.

"...which was?" Smokescreen asked after a moment of silence.

"Well, _my_ fingers might not fit in the guard, but _Rumble's_ fingers certainly did."

Hound, the fourth member of the small group around the table, shuddered. "Oh Primus, I don't think I like where this is heading..."

Smokescreen nodded. "Please don't tell us you lugged him around to shoot the weapon for you."

Sideswipe looked around the table, optics wide with acted innocence and surprise.

"Oh no!" he said. "I would never!" He leaned forward, lowered his voice, his surprised mien turning into something more sinister, and he smiled a lopsided smile. "Why would I want to do that, when all I needed was a _finger_?"

"Thanks, Sideswipe, that was just what I wanted to hear," Hound said sarcastically. "I think I feel sick."

"It's too early for that," Sideswipe said cheekily. "You've just had like two cubes or something!"

"Yeah, well, maybe we should save the gorier stories for later then, when he's passed out or something," Jazz said, then turned as he discovered a new arrival to the party. "Hey Blue!" he called out to the gray 'bot at the door. "Over here!"

Jazz pulled out a chair, and Bluestreak sat down, slumping into the chair.

"Hey Blue-boy, where've you been?" Jazz said as he handed the gunner a cube.

"Monitor duty," Bluestreak answered. "With Red Alert. Who kept on chastising me for not being vigilant enough, even though I tried to, but I mean, who can keep track of all those screens at the same time? Well, Red of course, but who else? Not me at least. Anyway, finally he had enough and ordered me out, which I guess is a good thing because he won't get annoyed with me and I won't have to watch the party on the monitors but can actually be here." He grabbed the cube and took a sip. "So, what are you guys talking about?"

"Except from Sides giving us disturbing mental images regarding his idea of how to fight a battle, not much," Smokescreen said, throwing a glance at Sideswipe as if daring him to continue his story.

"Huh. The battle, right. It went pretty well, wouldn't you say? I mean, we managed to drive those creeps away and no one got hurt, well, I say no one but I mean _practically_ no one, speaking about that, how's Prowl?" Bluestreak looked at Jazz inquiringly.

"Oh, he's all right. That blast of TC's just took out all his sensors and stuff, so he was a bit disorientated, but Ratchet fixed him up, well, mostly at least. Apparently it was too much work calibrating all of his sensors, so he's pretty much stuck with just the basics, ya know, touch, hearing, sight, that stuff." Jazz giggled to himself. "He said he would turn up here, so you can see for yourself... he's actually acting a bit jittery."

"Prowl, jittery? Never have I heard two words that fit together worse," Smokescreen said with a smile.

"That I have to see to believe," Hound agreed, turning to Sideswipe. "Can you believe that, Sides?" He nudged the warrior sitting next to him, making said mech jump slightly.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I guess." Sideswipe said, a faraway look across his faceplates.

"Hello? Earth calling Sideswipe," Jazz said, waving a hand in front of Sideswipe's face. "What are you thinking about?"

"I just thought... Jazz, you said that Prowl had lost most of his sensors..." Jazz nodded slowly. "So... does that include his taste sensors?" Jazz nodded again, wondering where this was leading. Sideswipe grinned. "Gentlebots, I think tonight will be the night when a long running bet will finally be concluded."

He looked around the table with a triumphant smile, only for it to wilter a bit as he found himself looking at four very confused faces.

"Come on!" he said. "Smokey, you at least should understand where I'm going! What I mean is, tonight will be the night when we finally get to see our stuck-up second-in-command getting completely, utterly, _totally_... drunk."

Silence.

"Umm," Bluestreak finally said, "how?"

Sideswipe sighed exaggeratedly. "Do I have to explain _everything_? Jazz, you said he would come here. You _also_ said that he has no sense of taste whatsoever. Which means that he will not be able to tell ordinary energon from high grade."

Jazz suddenly smiled. "Sideswipe my friend, I think you're on to something here. Smokey, do you have the betting sheets somewhere close by?"

Smokescreen pulled out a datapad from his subspace pocket. "Always," he said as he started to search through the various files on it. "Ah, here it is. Bet 5XB67, 'what will our SIC, designation Prowl, do when drunk?' Most popular bet seems to be that he'll simply crash. Of course, we have a few other bets that are more fun. Windcharger bet on that he'll, I'll cite, 'dance on tables dressed in a tutu singing Beatles songs'." Smokescreen looked up at the others. "He got good odds on that one."

"Heh, I bet," Jazz said.

Bluestreak chewed his bottom lip anxiously. "Well, I don't mean to be a killjoy or anything, but are you so sure this is a good idea? I mean, maybe he's got a reason he doesn't drink or anything, I'm not so sure..."

"Blue, dear, if he had a reason he surely would have told ol' Jazz about it. I'm his best friend after all, y'know?" Jazz said, slinging an arm around Bluestreak's shoulders. "B'sides, I've never heard of a li'l high grade ever harming anyone."

"Except for giving an almighty headache," Hound supplied.

"Yeah, well, except for that, but hey, dontcha think Prowler should at least for once in his life experience a hangover like the rest of us? Maybe then he'll stop buggering us all about duty early in the morning after a party..."

Bluestreak fidgeted slightly, obviously not all that comfortable with fooling his superior, but also not comfortable with denying his friends their fun.

"I guess..." he said, "If you say it won't harm him, I guess it's all right..."

"'Course it is!" Jazz exclaimed, feeling elated now that he had a goal with the evening. "But now, my fellow conspirators, we need a toast. To our poor defenceless victim, who shortly will enjoy the wonder that is high grade, and let's all hope he won't kill us when this is over."

* * *

A/N: I don't own Star Wars either. I'll try to get the next part up soon, I have it all figured out in my head. Just need to write it down.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Hah, I should know better than to say that I will have something up soon. It never works out that way. Also, I have been thinking of fixing the end of the previous chapter a bit, making it a little more obvious that those people are in fact slightly drunk since I don't think they would actually come up with or think of going through with such a plan when completely sober. Things like that can sound hilariously funny when you're drunk, even though they're really not.

Please note that the rating has been upped.

* * *

It was several more hours, however, before Prowl finally stepped through the doors to the rec room. By that time the party had died down, and almost all mechs had left to recharge, in their own berths or someone else's. Jazz had almost given up hope that Prowl would show up at all, and thus grinned from audio to audio as he finally saw the tactician making his way through the tables to where he was sitting, listening to a highly intoxicated Bluestreak who was trying to tell a story about something. Jazz had no idea what the other was talking about as his head was buzzing and the gunner was giggling so badly it was almost impossible to make out any words in the story. The giggling however was enough to make Jazz happy, and he laughed along with Bluestreak.

"Hello Jazz", Prowl said as he pulled out a chair and sat down at the table, making sure his back was facing the wall. "Bluestreak." He nodded towards the gunner, who promptly fell over in a mass of giggles. Prowl just frowned at him and looked back at Jazz. "He's drunk."

J nodded happily. "Yep."

"And so are you."

"Yep." J bobbed his head happily again, holding up a cube in salute.

Prowl just shook his head. "You know, you're not getting out of guard duty tomorrow morning, no matter how bad you might feel."

Jazz frowned. "Way ta kill the mood, Prowl."

"I just thought I should mention it. Not that I guess it matters anyway, you seem to be past the point of caring. If you'll excuse me for a moment, I'm getting something to drink." He rose again and walked over to the dispenser, pouring himself a cube of ordinary energon.

"Tell me again why I asked him to come here," Jazz said to Bluestreak, who was still giggling softly, head resting on his arms on the table. The gunner looked up at him curiously.

"Umm... 'cause you wanted to get him to dance on the tables? No, wait, that must be wrong... because... because..." he stared away into the distance. "Hey Jazz, why'd they paint the walls here orange?" he said, changing the subject without a second thought. "I mean, it's like, umm, like the only colour that clashes with almost everyone's paintjob. Did they want to make us sick? Come to think of it, who designed the Ark? Do you think it could have been Grapple?" Bluestreak giggled again.

"I dunno," Jazz said truthfully.

"Because, I mean," Bluestreak continued, "I mean, Grapple is orange. The walls are orange. Maybe he really likes orange?"

"Ya might be on ta something, Blue boy," J said thoughtfully. "Maybe we should ask him?"

"Ask who what?" a voice asked, and J looked up to se Sideswipe standing behind him. As Bluestreak smiled and opened his mouth to launch into what would most likely be a long explanation, he held up a hand. "Never mind, I just saw Prowl at the dispenser. You guys ready?"

"Hmm?" Jazz said, and then straightened a bit. "Oh yeah, that. Sure, I guess." The two of them looked at Bluestreak who was giggling, poking at an empty cube. "So, where's Hound? Wasn't he supposed to be th' decoy? And where's Smokescreen for that matter?"

Sideswipe simply pointed towards the coach at the other side of the room, where Hound was half sitting, clearly recharging, leaning against a likewise recharging Ratchet. "Well," Jazz said. "His loss. Guess we need another one then. And Smokey?"

"Eh, he disappeared a while ago, with Tracks." Sideswipe shook his head, grinning. "Guess he doesn't want to be disturbed. Although, that _would_ be rather fun if we had a camera..."

"Sides!" Bluestreak exclaimed. "That's not very nice." He tried to look at Sideswipe sternly, but only managed his strict face for a second before bursting into laughter.

"Never said I was nice," Sideswipe said with a wicked grin and moved around the table, a bit unsteadily, to sit down on a chair next to Bluestreak. He threw one arm around the gunner who was still laughing and shook him gently. "Hey Blue, come on. You wanna take over?"

Bluestreak looked up at him, optics wide. "Huh?" he said, then smiled and poked Sideswipe's nose, and started to giggle uncontrollably again, slumping against the red warrior who just looked at the young gunner with a disdainful look. Sideswipe shook his head slowly and caught Jazz's optics. "I guess we can't really count on him. Whatever. I'll do it then."

"Do what?" Prowl asked, sitting down at the table.

Sideswipe looked panicked for half a second, before his long-honed instinct for getting out of trouble kicked in. "Uh... get another cube?" he said and grinned at the tactician, before rising quickly, making Bluestreak fall to the floor as he lost his support.

"Oh, whoops!" Sideswipe said as he bent down to help Bluestreak up again. Bluestreak glared at him as he, with some help from Sideswipe, crawled back up on his chair and reached for the cube on the table, looking very disappointed as he discovered it was empty. He held it upside down and shook it a few times, and gave up with a sigh, leaning back in the chair.

"So, Prowler," Jazz said,smiling at the other, "didn't think ya'd show up."

"I had some work to do. Even so, I'm not in the habit of breaking promises. Even if I kind of regret that now." He shot a look at Bluestreak who was sitting with his head tilted back, staring at the ceiling with a faraway expression on his face. "I don't understand why you find it so desirable to lose your control in this way."

"Hey, it's fun," Jazz said, lifting his cube in a salute to the tactician and taking a swag from it. "B'sides, it makes you forget all the boring ordinary things."

Prowl just shrugged and lifted his own cube, taking a sip. "Hmm. So, in order to forget boring things and have fun, you let yourself get so out of control that you do things that you normally wouldn't think of doing, and pay for it all with feeling horrible the morning after. I can't really see how that qualifies as 'fun'."

Jazz opened his mouth to answer, but at that moment a loud crash was heard from the other side of the rec room, and Prowl started, looking around to see what the matter was. He frowned as he saw Sideswipe lying on the floor, tangled with a chair, obviously having walked straight into it and fallen over.

This was the moment Jazz had been waiting for. With a deft move he quickly swiped his cube with Prowl's, making sure the level of energon in the cubes where the same. Then he too looked over at Sideswipe, laughing at the Lamborghini's predicament along with Bluestreak who had been woken from his ceiling-studying reverie by the crash.

"Sides, you're supposed to _sit_ on the chair, not trying to 'face with it on the floor!" he hollered, making Bluestreak snicker before letting his head fall down onto the table, cradling it in his arms.

"You're just jealous 'cause you can't even get a chair to want you," Sideswipe answered good-humouredly, untangling himself from the chair and getting up. "I managed to save my cube, at least!" he said triumphantly, holding up a cube of high-grade as he staggered towards the table. He sank down in his chair again, slamming the cube down on the table hard enough for half of it to splash outside, drenching part of the table as well as Sideswipe's chest.

"Whoops."

"Primus, Sides, talk about abuse of high-grade!" J said, giggling at the disapproving scowl on Prowl's face.

"Primus almighty, I've arrived at the point where you start with the bad jokes," Prowl deadpanned.

"Your fault, buddy. You should have come here earlier."

"Yeah," Sideswipe agreed. "Anyway, a toast to Prowl, and let us all welcome him to this party of decadence and debauchery!" He raised his cube towards Prowl, who just stared at him for a moment, then looked around the room.

"I may be wrong, Sideswipe, but I must say I see none of that here," he said.

Sideswipe let his gaze sweep over the room, taking in Hound and Ratchet asleep on the couch across the room. Apart from them only Blaster was sitting in alt form in a corner, playing soft music for himself.

"Eh," Sideswipe said. "You should have been here earlier.

Jazz nodded. "Hard to be decadent when there's so few of us left," he said morosely. "And I'm sorry Sides, but I don't like you that way."

"So..." Prowl said. "You're the rejects?"

Jazz glared at him with mock resentment. "Tact, Prowl, tact. Ever heard of it?"

"He should have, in it's his title. _Tact_ician," Sideswipe said and snickered.

"First, Sideswipe, syntax. Second, tact and tactic are not the same things." Prowl corrected him.

"First, I don't even know what syntax _is_. Second, I don't care." Sideswipe said with a big grin, while Jazz laughed at them both, all the while keeping an optic on Prowl. The tactician had drunk most of his cube by that point, but showed no sign yet of any intoxication. Then, of course, the effect was usually slightly delayed as the high grade had to reach his systems.

Prowl shook his head at Sideswipe. "I don't know why I bother. Anyway, I should be going, it's rather late. I just meant to drop by−"

"No!" Jazz shouted, half standing up before realising what he'd said. Prowl was looking at him, confused.

"You don't want me to leave, or you object to the fact that it is late?"

Jazz sat down, a bit embarrassed with himself, forcing a grin.

"Eh, I mean... you just came... don't you want another cube?" he said, looking at the tactician with a hopeful expression.

"Well... maybe I should," Prowl admitted. "I am feeling rather depleted." He rose from the chair, and wobbled slightly, having to grab the table not to fall over. "Whoa," he said, lifting his head in confusion, looking around.

"Hey, easy." J stood up and stepped over to his friend's side, steadying him, trying not to smile as he recognised the tell-tale sign of a mech staring to get drunk. "Maybe you should sit down for a moment, eh?"

Prowl turned his head towards Jazz, and Jazz noted the strange look in the tactician's optics. He looked like he had no idea what was happening to him, and quite a bit lost. Jazz snickered at the weirdness of that look on Prowl's face as he grabbed hold of his shoulders, pushing him down into the chair again. Prowl didn't protest, but sank down, still holding one hand on the table for balance.

"Hey Jazz, what happened?" he said. "I feel... dizzy..."

"Easy there, Prowl, yer okay," Jazz said. "Maybe it's just the lack of your sensors that's causing it?"

Prowl nodded slowly. "Yes... maybe... oh Primus, I don't feel very−" He never finished the sentence, but slumped forward onto the table, cradling his head in his arms.

"Prowl!" Jazz called out, suddenly fearful, grabbing hold of P's shoulders and forcing him upright again. The tactician looked around himself with wide optics. "J− Jazz? That you?"

"Primus Prowl, don't scare me like that. I thought you were having a fit or something."

Prowl smiled. "Heh. No. Not me. Those are Red Alert's specialties, don't you know?" And then he giggled. Jazz just stared at Prowl, and when he lifted his gaze to look at Sideswipe he could see that the red mech was also staring. Prowl was _giggling_. Jazz edged away from the tactician and stepped over to Sideswipe, who leaned in close to Jazz.

"Umm, Jazz, I don't know if you've noticed, but that's Prowl over there, and he's giggling," Sideswipe whispered.

Jazz nodded.

"Yep."

"I guess we managed to get him drunk then."

"Mm-hm."

"You know... he's kinda scary when he's giggling like that."

Jazz looked back at the normally stoic tactician, who was leaning forward in his chair, reaching for Sideswipe's half-filled cube and dragging it towards him.

"Yeah."

"Maybe we shouldn't let him drink any more."

Jazz nodded sagely. "I think you might be right." He stepped over to Prowl again and gently took the cube from his hands, noting that the tactician had managed to drink a good bit of it. "Hey Prowl, that's enough for ya, I think," he said, laughing softly as the tactician made a grab for it, scowling when Jazz held it behind his reach. Prowl stood up again, reaching for the cube when he lost his balance and fell sideways, forcing Jazz to catch him.

"Whoa there!" Jazz exclaimed as he looked down on the other mech who was leaning on him, giggling uncontrollable. He threw a desperate look at Sideswipe, who just fell over the table laughing. Not really sure of what to do Jazz hefted the tactician to his feet, steadying him with an arm around his waist. "Definitely had enough," he muttered under his breath while staring at the not-helping Sideswipe who seemed to find the whole situation hilarious.

"Sorry J, it's just that−" Sideswipe dissolved in laughter again as he looked up to see Prowl still giggling softly. "It's, well, just look at him!" he continued when he'd gathered enough composure to speak, pointing at Prowl."

Prowl stopped giggling as he frowned at Ss in consternation and turned his head to look himself over. "What's wrong?" he said. "Do I have something on me?" He sounded so genuinely perplexed that Sideswipe once again started laughing, this time dragging Jazz with him. Prowl looked at the two of them for a second before joining in hesitantly, even though he clearly had no idea what he was laughing about.

"Well, fun as this is, I think it's time to get ya home, Prowl," Jazz finally said as he managed to stop laughing, adjusting his grip on Prowl's waist to keep the tactician from falling.

Sideswipe gave a last snort of laughter, nodded and rose. "Yeah, this party's pretty much over anyway. Come on Blue, let's get you back home too," he said as he prodded the gunner who still lay half draped over the table. When Bluestreak didn't move he sighed dramatically and simply hooked his arms under Bluestreak's and dragged him upright, shaking him none too gently. "Hey there, wakey wakey!" he said and smiled exaggeratedly when blue optics slowly lit up and the gunner looked around, looking disorientated.

"Party's over," Sideswipe said simply, shaking Bluestreak a bit more to try to wake him up.

"Oh." Bluestreak turned his head to look over his shoulder at the mech holding him up. "Sides?"

Sideswipe chuckled. "Yeah, it's me. I'm getting you home now, since you don't seem to be able to walk by yourself. 'Kay?"

"Okay..." Bluestreak said slowly, putting his hands on Sideswipe's arms and pushing himself more upright, getting his feet in under him to support his weight.

Together the four slowly made their way through the door to the rec room, leaving the few sleeping mechs behind together with discarded cubes and upended chairs. Cleaning would be a chore for tomorrow. They separated at Bluestreak's quarters, where the gunner entered the code and allowed Sideswipe to help him in, while Jazz and Prowl continued on towards the officer's hall.

Jazz had flung one of Prowl's arms around his shoulder, holding on to the hand while having his other arm wrapped around the other's waist, steadying him as they meandered down the hallway. Prowl had finally stopped giggling, something Jazz was very grateful for, since the sound had sounded really odd and a bit creepy coming from the stoic strategist. He was not any steadier though, so Jazz had to frequently shift to stop Prowl from falling to the floor, something that was not made easier by the fact that he wasn't exactly sober himself, and the floor seemed to be tilting every now and then. Coming to a stop in front of Prowl's door he once again shifted his grip around the tactician, forcing him to lean partly against the wall and partly against himself as he lifted a finger to punch in Prowl's code. Then he stiffened suddenly as he felt a hand slide up his side slowly, fingers lightly digging into a seam there. He turned his head to look at Prowl, who looked back at him with a decidedly lecherous smile, slowly stroking Jazz's side some more.

"Prowl!" Jazz exclaimed, shocked at seeing his friend actually _leering _at him. This was certainly not a common occurrence. In fact, he had _never_ seen that expression on Prowl's face before, and had definitely not expected it now. However, he could not deny the fact that the attention felt... extremely nice. Prowl's hand slid lower, gently caressing Jazz's hip strut, and Jazz felt his intakes stutter for a moment.

"Did anyone ever tell you how incredibly hot you look?" Prowl whispered in a sultry voice that Jazz had never heard from him before.

Maybe it was the high-grade doing it, or maybe... oh, scratch that. It most certainly was the high-grade that was doing it, but Jazz suddenly felt a wave of warmth run through his systems, and the thought of letting this new Prowl have his way with him didn't seem like a bad idea at all. In fact, as Prowl's hand started to delve into the gap between his hip strut and waist he threw caution to the wind and reached out to grab the tactician, quickly enter the code into the keypad and drag the other into the room. He hadn't really taken into account the fact that Prowl was still very unsteady, and as Jazz yanked the surprised Datsun through the doorway he stumbled, and together they fell in an ungraceful tumble to the floor. Jazz gave a small yelp as he hit the floor with Prowl on top of him. Prowl however seemed unfazed by the fall and simply gave a small laugh as he leaned down to nibble gently on the wires in Jazz's neck, a move which made the saboteur make a small noise of mixed surprise and pleasure. Primus, however'd thought that Prowl could ever be like _this_? He leaned his head a little bit to the side to give the tactician better access, and was rewarded by a small bite to the side of his neck which only served to send another wave of warmth through his body, making him writhe a little. That small movement brought his body flush against Prowl's, and he could hear the other gasp against his neck. He couldn't help but let out a soft laugh, the sound being so foreign and strange coming from Prowl. Prowl lifted his head from his neck and looked at him with a rather confused look. "What?" he said, tilting his head and heaving himself up on his forearms, breaking some of the contact between them.

Jazz giggled. "I'm not allowed to laugh when I'm havin' fun?" he said in a mischievous voice.

Prowl stared down at him. "Depends on what kind of fun you mean," he said with a crooked grin so unlike him that Jazz had to laugh again.

"How about... _this _kind of fun?" Jazz countered, tracing his hand across a door wing hinge. Prowl gave another gasp, and Jazz grinned triumphantly.

"Oh... _that _kind," Prowl said in a voice that was laced with static, as he arched his back slightly, trying to get Jazz to continue. Jazz nodded, or at least tried, as his head was pressed against the floor at the moment. The rather hard floor, a small part of his CPU noticed.

"Yeah..." he said, moving his hands from Prowl's back to put them against his chest, pushing slightly as he tried to sit up, ignoring Prowl's protests. "You know, what do you say we take this to your berth instead of down here? I bet it's more comfy there..." he said as he slid a finger under the other's bumper, effectively cutting off any remaining protests against the lack of contact between them. Prowl nodded with a predatory grin, and Jazz yelped as he was suddenly yanked from the floor as the tactician stood up in one fluid movement, belying the intoxicated state he was in. Jazz looked at him in amazement, too surprised to do anything about it as Prowl practically slammed him down on the berth and quickly climbed atop him. He drew in a sharp gasp as he noticed the look in Prowl's optics, filled with a raw, unbridled lust. A deft hand traced its way down his side to delve into a seam there, igniting the circuitry beneath, while the other hand curled around his shoulder in a way that way almost painful. He could feel the flickering of Prowl's energy field as it started to build; strong, roaring, almost untameable. He moved his leg to hook around Prowl's, and hissed with pleasure as the friction of thigh on thigh sent his whole body ablaze, making his vision swim. A low-pitched growl made him force his sight to focus on the mech atop of him, and his vents hitched for a moment at the sight of the tactician, too far gone to stop now. He could see Prowl trying to get his flaring energy field under control, to tame the immense energy and force it to move to his will. Not a difficult thing usually, but high grade had a tendency to make such things... more so. Jazz didn't even try to try to get his own field under control, knowing full well that he could easily overload without its help, what with Prowl moving his hands the way he was doing. He clutched the sides of the berth as the hand embedded in his side twisted a wire, sending tendrils of heat fanning out to envelope his whole being. Trying desperately to cling to some kind of coherency −knowing that it was rather futile with the high grade in his system− he tossed his head to the side, letting out a small moan which turned into a sharp cry as he felt Prowl finally managing to control his wildly fluctuating field, gathering it up and forcing it into him, hard, with a force that sent him reeling into overload, and dimly he heard Prowl give a small grunt of satisfaction as he sank down on top of him.

The energy slowly dissipated, leaving him gasping for air, vents working overtime to cool his body down, and his vision slowly came back into focus.

"Wow." His voice felt hoarse, and through the daze he could feel the weight of the other still on top of him.

"Wow," he repeated, staring up at the roof. Noting a distinct lack of response from the mech lying on top of him he turned his head ever so slightly, trying to look at him. "Prowl?"

No answer. He let his head fall back with an amused laugh, feeling much to content to be irritated at the fact that the tactician had obviously fallen into recharge without even having the courtesy of rolling off him. "Well buddy, you can't recharge like that," he said to himself, moving his arms up to gently push the other off him, while rolling out from under him. Making sure Prowl was lying in what seemed like a comfortable position, on his side with door wings free to stick out behind him, he rolled over, facing the wall. He was too much at ease to pay any attention to the little voice in his head that told him that this had been a spectacularly bad idea, and that he would certainly pay for it tomorrow. Giving in to the wonderful haze that was the after-effect of the overload, happily pushing any doubts and misgivings away for now, he sank into a peaceful recharge.

* * *

A/N: I've tried to rewrite the drunken bit more times than I care to count, but I can't get it any better. I guess I simply can't really write drunk people really well. Maybe I could if I got drunk myself, but I'm not in the habit of drinking alone. And when my friends are around, well, I don't usually write. Not very social.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Umm, it didn't take quite a month this time. Yeah. Anyway, angst ahoy.

* * *

Slowly, groggily Jazz awoke, and immediately regretted it. His head was hurting, the familiar ache after a night of over-indulgence. His mouth felt parched, and his whole body heavy as if all his plating had been replaced with lead. He certainly had no desire to online his optics, or to even think of getting up just yet. The blackness suited him just fine, he had enough experience with getting drunk to know that it would only get worse once he finally assembled enough courage to actually wake properly, and eventually get up. He also knew that he had to; there was duty to think of. Speaking of duty... he checked his chronometer, and was relieved to discover that at least he wasn't late. He wasn't due for another hour, and slowly vented some air out of relief. Prowl did not appreciate lateness, and he had no pity whatsoever for mechs who were late because of some partying the night before.

Prowl. Something in his mind piped up at the thought of the tactician. He was too tired though to really listen to it, even though something was screaming at him that there was something important connected to the Datsun that he _really _ought to remember. He shifted slightly in the berth, and was surprised as his leg suddenly hit something. Optics snapping open he stared into the wall, lying shock still as his CPU made the necessary connections.

"Oh _slag_", he muttered, relaxing slightly as he realised the other had not woken from the kick. Slowly he lifted his head, trying to ignore the way the ache in it increased, and looked over his shoulder. True enough, there was Prowl, lying curled up a bit on his side, door wings sticking out behind him, looking fast asleep. Jazz let his head flop back onto the headrest, thinking furiously. How was he to get out of this? Maybe if he was lucky he might get out of here without waking Prowl. And maybe Prowl would have no recollection of last night... and maybe everything would be like normal... He sighed. Too many maybes there. While he didn't really consider getting drunk and having a one night stand as anything worthy getting to upset over (after all, this was hardly the first time it had happened), he strongly suspected that Prowl was of a different opinion. Primus, if only his head wasn't aching so much, he might think of a solution! He grimaced as he realised that for once he couldn't come up with a way to get out of this trouble. Slowly he turned around in the berth, facing the other. With trepidation he reached out and tapped Prowl on the shoulder.

"Prowler?"

There was no reaction, which made him frown. He tapped again, a bit harder, but Prowl didn't move. A small tendril of worry started to sneak through his systems as he reached down to grip the other's shoulder to shake him awake. With a hiss he withdrew his hand, staring at the other. Hot.

"Prowl!" Putting his hand back, ignoring the burning sensation in the plating, he shook hard. "Come on, wake up..." He couldn't really hold back the small feeling of panic. What if Prowl did not wake? What was wrong with him? He hadn't drunk _that_ much yesterday, had he? With a sinking feeling Jazz realised that he could not really remember. "Please..."

Another shake, and finally Prowl stirred, making Jazz heave a small sigh of relief. He shook the shoulder again gently, and Prowl's optics snapped open. Jazz had just the time to see the utter shock in them before the Datsun scrambled backwards in surprise, and with an undignified yelp fell over the edge of the berth. Jazz barely had time to react when he saw the other disappear over the edge; he just had time to shout Prowl's name before he winced as he heard the crash as Prowl hit the 

ground. Scooting over towards the edge he looked down. There on the floor was Prowl, lying curled up on his right side, a soft keening sound coming from him.

His own headache forgotten Jazz swung his legs over the edge and stood up, leaning against the berth for a moment as he tried to regain his equilibrium. Crouching next to Prowl he hesitated for a moment before touching him, mindful of the reaction that had made him end up on the floor. Putting his hand on Prowl's back, he tried to think of what to do. The tactician felt so warm to the touch, something Jazz knew was not normal, and not good. Something was clearly wrong with him, and the painful sounds issuing from him only reinforced that.

"Hey buddy," he tried, trying to keep worry out of his voice and speak soothingly. "How... how are you?"

He cursed himself inwardly for asking such a stupid question. Prowl did not answer, only curled up tighter, pressing his head harder into his hands, indicating his head was hurting.

"Should I call Ratchet?" Jazz paused for a moment, trying to gauge if Prowl could hear him. Still no reaction, except for the keening sound of pain. "I'm going to call Ratchet, okay? You just hang in there. It's going to be okay, I promise." He tried to sound reassuring, but was pretty sure he was failing miserably. Hurriedly he opened a channel to Ratchet, cursing when it took the ambulance several signals to answer his comm.

"Yeah?" The answer was short and annoyed. "What the slag do you want? I'm tellin' you, I'm _not_ giving out painkillers this early in the morning." Jazz winced a bit; Ratchet did not enjoy being woken early after a night of heavy drinking. But what other choices did he have?

"Ratch, this is Jazz... something's wrong with Prowl. I really think you should come here."

"What do you mean 'wrong'?" Ratchet asked, clearly confused.

"I don't know, he's hot to the touch and he sounds like he's in pain and I can't really get through to him and I don't know what to do!" Jazz realised he started to sound panicky, but maybe that was a good thing, because it seemed Ratchet sobered up instantly.

"What, he's sick? How? Where is he now?"

"In his room... I swear, I don't know, I thought at first he just had a bad hangover or something, but it seems much worse−"

"Wait−" Ratchet interjected. "Did you say hangover? How the slag would he get a hangover? Prowl doesn't drink."

"Well..." Jazz began, but didn't have the chance to say anymore before R atchetcut him off again.

"You're not telling me he drank high-grade yesterday." Jazz winced at the coldness of Ratchet's voice. He'd rarely heard the medic sound so deadly serious, and it was not a pleasant thing to hear. He could almost feel the shock and anger emanating from Ratchet over the line.

"He... did," he said in a small voice, shrinking back from the outburst he was sure would follow. It never came. Instead there was silence on the line, and after a few moments he dared to hail the CMO again.

"Uh, doc?"

"I'm on my way." No more than that, before Ratchet cut the connection. Jazz sat shock still for a moment as he relived the short conversation in his head. It was clear the medic was deeply concerned, not to mention angry, which made him very worried. Had Ratchet shouted at him everything would have been normal, but this quiet anger... he only reacted like that when a situation was serious. Really serious. Could Prowl really be that ill?

Judging from the way he looked and sounded the answer was definitely yes. At least now he had stopped the keening noise, something Jazz wasn't sure to be relieved or worried about. Jazz leaned forward, gently rubbing Prowl's back in a way he hoped was soothing, and tried to smile at him, muttering reassuring nonsense words. The smile died as he noticed a strange noise coming from the tactician's vents. He hadn't heard it before because of the keening, but now that Prowl was silent except for an occasional moan he could hear it clearly. A rattling sound that sent chills through Jazz's body. No wonder Prowl was feeling hot, that sound could not mean anything else than his vents were struggling to function.

"Come on, Prowl, just hang in there, Ratchet will be here any moment, it will be okay, he'll fix you up, you just have to be strong and hang on..."

He kept his litany up, not really caring about the words, but just talking for Prowl, and to keep his own rising desperation at bay.

"Please, everything will be all right, you just have to keep on venting air, just a little longer, and then it will be okay, I promise, come on..."

He kept on rubbing Prowl's back softly, trying not to jar him or cause him any more discomfort; it was bad enough he was on the floor and not on the berth, but Jazz did not dare to move him by himself. Feeling more and more desperate by the second, he fervently wished Ratchet would arrive soon. He knew it had probably only been a minute or two since the call was terminated, but it felt like hours, _days_, in his world.

After what felt like an eternity the door opened with such suddenness that Jazz almost jumped a metre in the air, and Ratchet swept into the room like a great white whirlwind. Not even sparing Jazz a look he pushed the saboteur away and crouched down next to Prowl, pulling stuff out of subspace and placing them next to him. Jazz simply stood back and could do nothing but look on as the medic worked furiously, opening a fuel line on Prowl's left arm and attaching what looked like some kind of diagnosis equipment to it. Ratchet flipped a switch on it, and it lit up with numbers, gauges and symbols that Jazz had no idea how to interpret. Ratchet however swore under his breath as he dragged out a large contraption with two hoses attached to it and before Jazz could protest or even process what he was seeing, Ratchet had unsheathed a scalpel and slit through the main fuel line in Prowl's neck. Prowl jerked suddenly as energon started to flow liberally from the wound, but Ratchet quickly attached each severed end to a hose, and a moment later the tactician stilled again as 

energon flowed through one hose to the large contraption and back through the other into his neck again.

Ratchet glanced at the diagnosis box on Prowl's arm, and then he finally spoke, although he didn't turn around, but kept his optics on the half-conscious tactician on the floor.

"He can be moved now."

Jazz moved forward, hesitantly, as Ratchet turned to look at him briefly. "You just grab his legs, and try to keep him stable. We don't want to shake him too much."

Jazz nodded silently and bent down to take hold of Prowl's legs, carefully at first, as Ratchet wrapped one arm around Prowl's chest and lifted him with a gentleness that belied his sturdy build, the other hand steadying his head. Jazz followed, trying to keep Prowl level, and together they slowly hoisted the Datsun onto his berth. Ratchet grabbed the headrest and pushed it under Prowl's head, making sure the tactician looked comfortable before removing his steadying hand. He swiftly moved on to check the hoses attached to Prowl's neck, sighing softly when he was assured they were still thoroughly attached.

Looking on his friend lying stretched out on his side on the berth, Jazz felt almost nauseous. Energon was flowing through the tubes on his neck, and more was staining the area around it. Prowl was moving slowly, legs twitching occasionally, tell-tale signs that he wasn't fully unconscious. It was all Jazz could do to try to stay upright, and not simply fall to the floor from seeing the tactician so vulnerable and helpless, and knowing it was his fault.

Primus, yes, this was all his fault. The harsh reality crashed down upon him, and he had to steady himself against the berth. How could he have been so stupid? How could they have thought it a good idea to get Prowl drunk, without knowing the reason he didn't drink? If this was the result there was no wonder the tactician preferred to stay sober. He could not understand how they had thought that it would be a good idea. And now Prowl was paying the price for their stupidity.

"I'm... I'm sorry," he choked out in a small voice, drawing the attention of Ratchet. "I didn't mean to..."

Ratchet just looked at him with an unreadable expression as he unfolded a large sheet, and carefully placed it over Prowl, covering most of his body.

"Cooling blanket," Ratchet explained. "It will keep him cool enough until I can fix that broken vent of his." He stepped back from the berth, and Jazz could hear him open up a channel on his comlink.

"Wheeljack? I need you to go to the med bay and get a fifteen-bladed fan, size 14½, and come with it to Prowl's quarters. You know where I keep them, right? Good. All right, Ratchet out."

He ended the conversation and crouched down next to Prowl's head, placing a hand upon his forehead.

"Prowl? Can you hear me?"

The only answer as far as Jazz could discern was a soft moan.

"All right," Ratchet continued in a soft voice. "You don't have to speak. Just nod if you can hear me."

There was a barely perceptible nod, and Ratchet pressed on. "Now, I need to ask some questions, and I need you to answer them for me. You just have to nod if the answer is yes. Is that all right?"

Nod. "Good. First, your internal diagnostics, are they telling you anything?"

Stillness.

"You're not getting any information from them, am I right?"

Nod.

"All right. We'll have to do this the hard way then. Okay, I'm going to go over your body, and you will need to tell me where it hurts. Can you do that for me?"

Another nod.

"So, does it hurt here...?"

Jazz watched, feeling somewhat detached from the world, seeing but not really taking in how Ratchet moved his hands over Prowl's body. His head had started to ache again, or maybe it had been all the time but he hadn't noticed. Everything was so surreal... it had all happened so fast. Yesterday seemed so far off, like it was in another life. Could they really have been drinking and laughing then? It seemed impossible now. Yesterday Prowl had seemed full of life, and now he was lying here, helpless, only barely aware of what was happening to him. Did he understand what was happening to him? Did he remember anything of last night? Did he know that it was Jazz's fault that he was hurting? Jazz wasn't sure he wanted to know. He was suddenly aware of the fact that Prowl's occasional kicking with his legs had displaced the cooling blanket, and he carefully replaced it, making sure it covered his friend. He placed a hand on one of Prowl's twitching legs and gently moved his fingers across the smooth metal, feeling the tenseness underneath.

"I'm so sorry..." he murmured. "So sorry... I wonder if you can ever forgive me."

What _would_ Prowl say when he realised his so-called best friend had let this happen to him? No, not just let it happen, but actively _caused_ it to happen? Jazz tried to shake that thought from his mind, but it kept coming back. Had he managed to lose his friend through his stupidity? Another small thought made its presence known, and he trembled slightly as he realised that for that to happen Prowl actually had to get better first. What if he didn't? What if whatever had happened to him was bad enough to−

No. He shook his head. He refused to even think that Prowl would do anything but pull through, the way he always did. Go back to being his usual annoyingly logical self. But Ratchet was so quiet... usually he was rather vocal while repairing someone, berating them or just muttering about stupid bots who managed to get hurt in such stupid ways. But now he was silent, except for the soft inquiries to Prowl, and that worried J more than anything.

He realised that Prowl's leg had stopped twitching, and looked up to see Ratchet stand back, wiping his energon-stained hands on a piece of cloth.

"How... how is he, Ratchet?" he choked out, not able to keep himself from it. The medic threw him a look, then sighed softly.

"He's stable. For now. He was very lucky you were here and could wake him, and call for me. Otherwise..." he trailed off, shaking his head. Silence reigned between the two for a moment as J processed Ratchet's words and realised what they meant.

"Oh..."

"Yeah."

His pensive thoughts were interrupted by the door opening, admitting Wheeljack who immediately made his way to Ratchet, pressing something into his hand, and then turned a puzzled look upon Prowl.

"What happened to him?" The scientist spoke in hushed tones as he approached the tactician.

"Energon poisoning," Ratchet answered shortly, turning the object in his hand –the called-for fan– over, as he grabbed a toolbox with his other hand and handing it over to Wheeljack. "I need you to assist me while I replace that broken fan."

"But... how could that happen?" Wheeljack sounded truly perplexed. "Prowl would never drink any high-grade; he knows what it does to him."

"Yes, I would like to know that too, actually," Ratchet replied as he picked up a prying tool. "Care to indulge us, Jazz?"

"Umm..." Jazz began, not sure how to phrase an explanation without making Ratchet explode. "I... I mean... I didn't..."

"Jazz, are you trying to tell me that you're responsible for this?" Ratchet's voice was cold as ice as he carefully enunciated each word, still not looking at Jazz. The Porsche winced, lowering his head, keeping his gaze on his hand resting upon Prowl's still leg.

"I didn't know... I never meant for him to get hurt..." he said in a small voice. "I didn't know..."

"You didn't know. You didn't know, what? That Prowl here happens to be sensitive to high-grade? That he can't process it? That you might very well have killed him?" Ratchet slowly raised his voice as he straightened up, turning to look at Jazz, who cowered as the medics furious gaze fell upon him. "Well guess what, you shouldn't have needed to know. You knew, you _knew_, that he didn't touch the stuff; that should have been enough for you! How the frag can you be so irresponsible as to ignore that?"

"I... I didn't know..."

"Yes, you said that. And I say that it doesn't matter whether you knew or not. Slaggit, and you're supposed to be an officer! Primus, you should be ashamed of yourself. I am." The medic shook his head in disgust. "So, how much did you give him?"

"I'm not sure... he had a cube, but then he stole some of Sides' as well I think... I don't really know..." Jazz trailed off, still keeping his gaze upon his hands, not daring to meet Ratchet's gaze.

"You fragging idiot. You complete, utter idiot. Get out."

Jazz raised his head at that, looking up at the medic who stood looming over him.

"What?"

"You heard me. I can't work with you in here. Get out." Ratchet pointed towards the door. "Now!"

Opening his mouth, all protests died as he saw the deadly fury in Ratchet's optics, and he scrambled for the door, narrowly escaping the prying tool that sailed past his head to hit the wall and land with a clatter on the floor. Opening the door and slipping through, the last thing he saw was Ratcher staring angrily in his direction while walking to pick up the thrown tool, and Wheeljack who stood with the toolbox in his arms, looking thoroughly shocked at the whole scene. And then the door shut behind him.

xxx

It was only maybe thirty minutes late that Wheeljack emerged from the room to find Jazz sitting outside with his head resting on his knees, arms wrapped around hiding his face, his body trembling from exhaustion and worry. The scientist sighed softly. He was not really surprised to see that Jazz had stayed, although he wished the mech had had the sense to go refuel.

"Jazz," he said, kneeling down next to the saboteur, who lifted his head ever so slightly from his arms.

"Will he be okay?" The words was so softly spoken that Wheeljack almost didn't hear them. He sat down next to Jazz and slung an arm across his shoulders.

"He... well, I won't lie to you and say everything is fine, because it's not. But he'll live. He's recharging now." Wheeljack paused for a second. "Jazz, do you understand what happened here? Do you understand the severity of this situation?"

Jazz looked up at Wheeljack, surprised at the softness of the words.

"I don't know... I understand that somehow he's unable to process the high-grade... but I don't know why, or why he didn't tell me. Why didn't he simply tell me, Wheeljack?"

"I don't know. Maybe he just didn't think of it. Maybe he simply did not see a reason for it. I would be lying if I understood his logic sometimes. But Jazz, I want you to understand what happened to him now, because I know you must be wondering." When Jazz just nodded Wheeljack continued. "Right, I guess you already know how high-grade works. That unlike ordinary energon it is not processed completely before entering our system, and therefore causes minor damage to the CPU, which leads to the detached feeling that we usually call getting drunk. Your hangover is actually just your body trying to repair itself, which can hurt a bit. Now, normally this is not harmful, as long as you give your body a chance to heal between indulging. But if you keep on drinking it might lead to permanent damage, as your body no longer can keep up with healing. You with me so far?"

Jazz nodded.

"With Prowl it's different. When he drinks high-grade he does not process it partly as we do, releasing just a small amount of toxic into the system. He cannot process it _at all_. Which means that while we might get around three to seven percent of the high-grade into our system, depending a little bit on the quality of the high-grade and the tolerance of the person, Prowl gets closer to ninety percent of it."

Jazz grimaced. "Ouch."

"Yes. Which, of course, is the reason he does not drink. Well, and it's not really his style either, which is probably why he's been able to hide it so well. Anyway, as for why he's unable to process it, we actually don't know. It's been driving Ratchet crazy, he's been trying to find out why for ages, but Prowl isn't the most cooperative of mechs when he can't really see the direct meaning of something, and I assume he's been shrugging this small flaw of his off as something unimportant. Which it is, as long as he doesn't drink."

"But... he will be okay now? Now that R's taking care of him? Right? You said he'd be okay..."

Wheeljack fell silent, leaning his head back to rest it against the wall behind him.

"I said that he'd live... Primus Jazz, you have to understand... high-grade affects the CPU, and Prowl did get a very high dose. It's... it's possible that he won't really be the same."

Jazz felt as if someone had doused him in ice-cold water. "You mean... he might be... mentally crippled?"

"There's no way to know right now. We can't just open his CPU and see what's been damaged, that is the one part, apart from the spark, that we cannot simply replace or fix. It has to heal itself, and right now it's impossible to know how damaged it is. He might lose memories, he might change personality-wise, or he might come out of it unharmed. We just don't know." He shook his head sadly.

Jazz buried his head in his arms again. "Primus... I'm so sorry..."

"Yeah," Wheeljack agreed, pulling Jazz closer. "Me too."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Finally I got this up. My stupid comp is down at the repair shop, because it's been acting up lately. I got it home yesterday, but the problem was still there! Gah! So I had to take it back... anyway, I at least managed to save this onto a memory stick during the short time I had it at home, so I could finish this part on another computer. Now I just want to get my ordinary comp back. I miss it.

* * *

Optimus Prime walked down the hall, steps hurried, brushing past the occasional passers-by. He did not stop to look into the security centre, as was his habit when he passed by, nor did he spare a few moments to stop and exchange a few words with the 'bots sitting in the mess, preparing for today's duties.

As soon as he got the message from Ratchet that his second in command was... _indisposed_ , that was the word Ratchet had used, but Optimus could hear there was something Ratchet wasn't saying; as soon as he got that message he had left the report he was currently looking at and made his way towards the officer's quarters. He almost wanted to run, but it would not do for the commanding officer of the Autobot army to be seen running in the hallways for anything less than a Decepticon attack. Nevertheless, he felt the need to hurry. For Prowl to be ill in any way, that was practically unheard of. He always took care of himself, never indulging in any drinking, partying or anything else that might hamper his efficiency as a tactician. He wanted to function at optimal capacity at all times, so Optimus was totally at loss over what could be wrong with him. Ratchet had given no more information, simply said that Optimus better come to Prowl's quarters at once.

He tried to fight down a small feeling of worry, and unconsciously quickened his stride. He couldn't really say that he was close to the aloof tactician, (pit, no one was, except maybe Jazz) in the same way that he'd nurtured close friendships with some of the other officers over the millennia, but nevertheless the mech had managed to carve himself a small space inside the leader's spark anyway. Even though he wasn't exactly one to confide to, he was always there, always ready, always loyal and prepared to handle whatever was thrown at him. Optimus could not ask for a better second in command, and so when he hurried down the hallways his mind was swirling with possible scenarios why Prowl was not well.

He turned the final corner and emerged into the hallway lined with doors leading to the officers' private quarters (including his own, where, he knew, he spent far too little time), and faltered slightly.  
Outside Prowl's door sat Jazz and Wheeljack; Jazz with his arms around his head, looking like a picture of grief and despair, and Wheeljack with his arms around the distraught mech. Optimus felt like a heavy hand had just taken hold of his spark; holding it in a death grip. Primus, what could have happened to make Jazz look like that? He quickly regained his posture and walked up to the two, dreading what they might tell him. Wheeljack noticed him first and looked up, shaking Jazz slightly to disengage him. Jazz looked up, somewhat disorientated, and then flew to his feet as he noticed the large mech standing in front of him.

"Optimus, sir," he said, "uh, you're here to see Prowl?"

"Yes. Ratchet called me and said it was urgent, so I came as fast as I could. How is he?"

Optimus looked at Jazz who just bowed his head, biting his lip. There was no telling what went on behind the visor, but Optimus felt his spark sink once again. "Jazz?" he tried, kindly, reaching out to touch the smaller mech's shoulder. Jazz looked up at him, opened his mouth, and then he averted his gaze once more, shaking his head slowly, trying to turn away.

"He's... stable for now." Wheeljack volunteered, and Optimus turned his attention to the engineer. "It's pretty bad though."

Nodding, Optimus felt the hand around his spark loosen up just a little bit. At least Prowl was alive, then. For a moment he had feared the worst. Jazz seemed absolutely devastated, and Optimus wondered what could have happened to make the normally upbeat mech so distraught. So many times mechs had been wounded and despair had been hanging in the air, and then Jazz would appear and make everyone feel a little better, bringing a glimmer of hope to the darkness. Now however...

His thoughts were interrupted as the door opened and Ratchet stepped out, looking at the three assembled outside, scowling as his gaze travelled over Jazz's hunched form.

"Don't you have duty, Jazz?" he muttered, and Jazz threw him a glance, looking almost like a cornered animal of some kind.

"Uh..."

"Never mind, Jazz, you're excused," Optimus injected, seeing the confusion on the saboteur's face. "Ratchet, what's going on here?"

Ratchet heaved a sigh, and cast a glance back into the room from whence he had came.

"Maybe you better come in," he said. Optimus nodded, rather confused.

"Jazz, you stay here," Ratchet said as he noticed the saboteur starting to follow them. Optimus frowned at the words, wondering just why Ratchet didn't want Jazz to come into the room.

"We'll be right back," he said to Jazz in what he hoped was a reassuring voice, and followed Ratchet into the room. He had to adjust his optics slightly when he entered, the dimmed lights in the room a clear contrast from the sharp lights out in the corridor. The door slid shut behind him, and he noticed Ratchet had walked up to the lone berth in the room. As Optimus stepped up next to him he took in the figure lying motionless on the berth, connected to an machine next to him.

"What happened, Ratchet?" he asked in a hushed tone. Somehow the semi-darkness of the room and the occasional blinking lights on the apparatus made his words seem louder than necessary.

"High-grade poisoning." Ratchet stood looking at the tactician lying on his side on the berth, a grim mien on his face.

"High-grade?" Optimus looked at him, confusion plastered over his face. "I've never seen him touch the stuff, how–"

"He's got a very good reason for not touching it. He's highly sensitive to it." The CMO paused for a second. "He was tricked into drinking it." Ratchet sounded like he was trying his very best not to yell or throw something into the wall.

"Tricked?" Optimus frowned, wondering who would want to do that to Prowl. Sure, he wasn't exactly well-liked, but at least most of the crew respected him, and he could think of no one who had any reason to actually do him any harm.

"Yes, tricked, by his so-called best friend!"

Ah. So that was why Ratchet was so short with Jazz outside. Judging from Jazz's state though, Optimus had no doubts that this was not the intended income.

"Ratchet... I'm sure he didn't mean for it to come to this."

"I know that!" Ratchet snapped. "It's just… Prime, I just can't believe that utter irresponsibility..." he shook his head slowly, leaning on the berth. "He could have slagging died, we still don't know exactly how bad it is, would it really matter then if Jazz _intended_ it or not? It wouldn't matter for Prowl, that's for sure."

Optimus sighed heavily. Not for the first time he cursed the fact that he had to appear so composed at all times as a leader. Since Ratchet was so obviously upset, he had to act calm. Not that he blamed the medic, it was not easy to remain calm. Prowl did not look good at all, and the sight of the tubes going into his neck was rather... unsettling.

"Ratchet," he asked seriously, "how bad is it?"

Ratchet straightened up, looking at Optimus with a weary look.

"It's not good. He's... well, he got a very high dose into his system, and I can't tell yet how it's affected him." He leaned forward again, placing a hand gently upon Prowl's helmet. "I just hope I got here in time. I just hope his mind is still intact when he wakes up."

Ratchet didn't say any more, and Optimus found himself at loss of what to do. Part of him wanted to ask for more details, and part of him knew that Ratchet would tell him when he was ready. The silence stretched out between them as the medic seemed to almost forget he was there, absentmindedly checking and rechecking the tubes and the connections to the machine, as if he could force them to show him some improved result if he just looked at them hard enough. Finally Ratchet stepped back a bit from the berth and shook his shoulders, as if to relieve some tension.

"I'm sorry," he said, clearly trying to compose himself. "I know you need to know more about what's happened to him, and I'm just... it's just, Primus, what if I didn't get here on time?"

"Ratchet..." Optimus said, putting a hand on the smaller mech's shoulder, feeling him shudder softly. "You've done everything you could possibly do. Don't do this to yourself."

He almost jumped backwards as Ratchet spun around suddenly, dislodging the hand on his shoulder.

"Of course I've done everything I've could! You think I don't know that? What kind of a medic would I be if I didn't?" Ratchet snarled the words as Optimus held up his hands, realising his mistake. "Do you really think I'd do anything less? Primus, Prime..." He shook his head, sinking down into the chair by Prowl's desk. "I know all that," he added in a softer tone. "But it doesn't make it any easier. I feel so slagging _helpless_ ... he's lying there and there's nothing more I can do for him. _Nothing!_ "

Optimus nodded silently, not sure whether he should reach out to the distressed mech or not. It was rare to see the CMO this worked up, this... unprofessional. After standing in silence for a bit longer he stepped over to the berth instead, looking down at the recharging tactician. In recharge Prowl looked almost peaceful and relaxed, a long shot from the uptight persona he usually displayed. If not for the tubes attached to his neck or the diagnosis equipment on his arm it would have been a soothing sight.

His optics fell on the tubes, and he recognised the contraption that would cleanse Prowl's energon from the impurities caused by the unprocessed high-grade. The high-grade that he'd been tricked into drinking... by his closest friend, if Ratchet told the truth. Optimus could feel the first hints of a headache coming on as he contemplated the ramifications of that. He'd have to conduct an investigation, and seeing how Jazz already seemed devastated... there was no way he'd meant for this to happen. Still, it had, and as a result Prowl had been incapacitated like this. He did not look forward to have to punish Jazz for the events, but there was protocol to think of... Primus, why did he have to be in charge?

Absentmindedly he tugged a little on the blanket covering Prowl's still form, tucking it in around him. Lost in his mind he almost didn't notice as Ratchet got up from the chair and walked over to him.

"He doesn't really need that anymore," Ratchet said in a low voice. "It was just to cool him down when his vents didn't work."

"It won't hurt him, though," Optimus replied, tucking in the last part of the blanket. "Will he be all right if we leave him for a while?"

Ratchet nodded slowly. "There's nothing more I can do at the moment. He should be stable. And I've rigged a warning system that will alert me if anything changes."

"Good. I want you to come with me to my office. I want to get all the facts on what happened, and who did what." He stepped up to the door and keyed it open, walking out into the bright lights of the hall. His optics fell on Jazz and Wheeljack who were standing outside, looking at him, obviously wondering what had happened inside and what he would decide to do now.

"Jazz, you come with me. Wheeljack, you can go back to whatever you were doing. I'm sure Ratchet will contact you if he needs you again."

With that he started off towards his office, trusting Ratchet and Jazz to follow him.

oOo

Jazz was feeling positively miserable as he followed Optimus toward his office, Ratchet walking next to him but not looking at him. He glanced briefly at the ambulance, who was holding his head up, staring right ahead, looking calm on the outside but Jazz could see by the tension in his walk that he was furious. With reason, Jazz knew. He'd been incredibly stupid, so incredibly stupid. And now he would have to tell their leader that.

The door to Optimus's office opened, and the three mechs filed into the room, Optimus stepping behind his desk and the other two standing at attention opposite.

"All right," Optimus finally said after a moment of silence. "Please tell me what happened. Jazz, why don't you start, seeing as you were the one to call for aid, if I understand things right?"

Jazz nodded slowly. How to explain this best? He decided to settle for a very short explanation at first. Optimus would ask for details if he needed them. After all, he didn't know how much Ratchet had told him already. "I, umm, I noticed he wasn't responding when I tried to talk to him and he was feeling warm, so I thought it best to call Ratchet."

"Yes... which was rather fortunate, I'm led to believe. I'm just curious about one thing, Jazz. How come you were there in the first place? I, ah, I do find it a little unusual..." he trailed off, looking at Jazz who twisted somewhat uncomfortably. He wasn't sure at all that Prowl would appreciate him telling what had really happened, and truth to be told Jazz was feeling a tad ashamed himself. Getting drunk enough to take advantage of a drunken friend didn't really seem... right. Despite the fact that it was Prowl who had initiated it, it was, after all, due to Jazz getting him drunk first.

"He, well, he didn't seem so well yesterday so I helped him home and, umm, well, I stayed."

He did not say anything more, hoping it would be enough. Optimus looked at him for a long moment, and Jazz tried not to squirm under the soft, steady gaze. Optimus, however, did not ask him to elaborate.

"Yes. Yesterday." Optimus said. "I would like to know what happened. How did you manage to get our second in command drunk enough that he couldn't get back to his quarters by himself? Considering that he does not drink."

Jazz flinched at the hard tone in Optimus's voice. He braced himself, now he had to admit to breaching the trust placed in him as an officer. Could Optimus ever trust him again? He had through his recklessness seriously hurt the second in command, his _friend_ . The thought made him almost loose his composure. Optimus might decide to not only place him in the brig or do punishment duty, but he could actually demote him, and right now he felt he surely deserved it.

"I–" he began, but right at that moment the door opened with a whoosh. He turned towards it, surprised, and was met with the sight of a Bluestreak who stared at them all, optics wide.

"Bluestreak," Optimus said, sternly but not unkindly, "if it's not a matter of life or death I was talking to Jazz and Ratchet."

"Oh... I... I'm sorry..." Bluestreak started, obviously flustered.

"Don't be, it's my fault. I thought I had locked my door. It appears I was wrong. Now, what did you want? Can't it wait?"

Bluestreak grimaced and opened his mouth, then shut it again, looking back towards the hall like he wanted to be anywhere but in the office.

"I, eh..." He lifted his hands nervously, clenching them, twisting his fingers before dropping his arms next to his sides, looking everywhere except at Optimus.

"Bluestreak," Optimus said.

"I just heard that Prowl was sick from high-grade and I wanted to say that I think that it might be my fault and I'm so sorry I didn't know and Wheeljack said it's really bad and I'm sorry, is it really that bad please tell me it isn't because I couldn't live with it if I knew I' hurt him and–" The words came tumbling from the gunner in a fast stream, and Optimus held up his hand to stop it.

"Bluestreak, wait a second. You had anything to do with this?" Optimus looked at him, clearly puzzled.

"I... I think so."

"You think?"

"I don't remember!" Bluestreak wailed. "I remember talking about what would happen if he got drunk, and I have this vague memory of him there, but I don't know!"

"Prime, permission to speak," Jazz said. He wasn't about to let the young gunner take the blame for what was, essentially, his fault. Well, actually, his and Sideswipe's. He wasn't entirely sure whether to tell Optimus that the warrior had been involved.

Optimus nodded. "Yes, Jazz?" He looked straight ahead at Optimus, but in the corner of his optic he could see Bluestreak looking at him, surprised.

"Bluestreak had nothing to do with this. In fact, he did voice his concerns about the whole thing. Guess we should have listened more to him."

"'_We'_ ?" Jazz flinched as Ratchet spoke up for the first time since they had left Prowl's room. "Who are those 'we' you're talking about?"

Jazz cursed himself. So much for the option of leaving Sideswipe out of this mess.

"Umm... Sideswipe was there too."

Optimus gave a sigh, looking very tired all of a sudden. This was probably not at all how he'd expected the day to go when he woke up that morning.

"All right... Bluestreak, it seems you're clear," he said. "You may leave. I will talk to you later." Jazz watched as the gunner left the room, visibly glad to get out of there. "Now," Optimus continued, "Does any of you know where Sideswipe is right now?"

Jazz shook his head while Ratchet simply grunted that it wasn't his job to keep track of the delinquents, only to put them back together when they'd done something stupid. Optimus sighed again and began tapping away at the console, calling up the assignment lists for the day. Jazz shifted slightly from one leg to the other, feeling deeply uncomfortable with telling on the red warrior, but at the same time rather relieved that he'd done it. After all, better now than later, because he had no real doubts that Optimus would find out the truth sooner or later.

"Hmm, seems like he's out on patrol until this afternoon. I'll have to talk to him later then." Optimus shut down the console and looked back up at Jazz. "But back to the subject in hand. You were going to tell me exactly how this mess all started."

The Porsche drew in air through his vents, straightened up and slowly, haltingly, began to tell Optimus about what had happened, starting with the slightly drunken discussion of whether it was possible to get Prowl drunk when he was lacking some senses, leaving out only the fact that it had all actually started long ago with the stupid bet, and the reason why he'd stayed the night with Prowl.

oOo

Finally excused from Optimus's office, Ratchet made his way as fast as he could towards Prowl's room, stopping only briefly at the mess to get himself a cube of energon to keep him going. While he was certain the tactician's status was unchanged, seeing as his alarm had been silent, it was still one thing to trust an alarm, and another to actually see for oneself. He'd been kept away long enough, first hearing Jazz tell his version of how it all had happened, and then having to give an extensive report on Prowl's condition. It had taken a while, and now he wanted to check on the tactician again. He briefly thought about moving him to the med bay, but decided against it. There was no need; the only danger for him now was that the high-grade had affected his mind, and if that had happened it wouldn't matter whether he was in a med bay or not, because nothing Ratchet could do could fix something like that. Better to leave him in his room and let him wake up there.

Keying the door open he stepped quietly into the room, setting the cube down on the desk before walking over to the still figure on the berth. He checked all the equipment, noting with satisfaction that all of the energon had been cleansed, and that the thing was no longer needed. With practised hands he removed the tubes going into Prowl's neck, and used a piece of soft rubber to attach the severed ends to each other again, making sure there was no leakage. Prowl's own internal healing system would do the rest and in a few days no one would be able to notice the cut anymore.

That done, he pulled the chair over to the berth and sat down heavily, sitting down for the first time since this mess started. Slowly he rubbed his face with his hands, leaning back in the chair, waiting for Prowl to wake. Waiting to see how much the poisoning had affected him.

oOo

He awoke with a start, cursing to himself as he realised he'd fallen into recharge in Prowl's desk chair. Primus, his neck hurt. Rubbing ruefully at the part he shut off the alarm that had woken him and rose to make his way over to the berth where Prowl lay, checking the diagnosis machine that had started beeping softly, indicating that the tactician was starting to wake up. Satisfied that everything seemed all right he pulled the chair over to the berth and sat down.

Blue optics slowly unshuttered and glowed softly in the dim light.

"Prowl?" Ratchet leaned forward a bit as he spoke. Prowl slowly turned his head towards him, optics flickering slightly as he tried to focus.

"Ratchet?" he said, voice somewhat hoarse, but otherwise sounding like himself. "What happened?"

Ratchet drew a sigh of relief. At least Prowl recognised him. He put a hand on the other's shoulder as Prowl moved about in the berth, trying to sit up.

"Easy, don't move too much. How are you feeling?" he said, helping the other to sit up and lean against the wall at the head end of the berth.

Prowl frowned slightly, and Ratchet knew from previous experience that he was running an internal scan as well as really thinking on how to best explain how he was feeling. A welcome change from most his patients who either insisted that they were fine when they weren't, or just moaned that something was hurting somewhere. Prowl, however, was as practical as ever.

"I feel… sluggish. Tired. I do not really know why. And my head hurts. My internal scans tell me of slight damage to my neck, arm and CPU. Also I still lack many of my senses. It's… disorienting."

Ratchet nodded.

"You got quite a high dose of high-grade last night, which is why your head is hurting. I can give you an anaesthetic for it, but I'd rather talk to you a little first. There are things I'd like to know."

"What do you want to know?"

"I need to know how much the high-grade affected your CPU. You go rather severely poisoned, and that can lead to memory loss, personality change, sometimes hallucinations. I want you to tell me immediately if there's anything you can't remember that you should remember, or if you notice anything odd in any other way. I'd rather have you come to me one time too many than walking around without telling me."

Prowl nodded slowly. "You think I might have suffered any of… this?"

"The fact that you're actually awake and talking to me like normal is a good sign, but I don't want to take any chances. If you feel up to it you will be able to return to light duty later today, but I do not want you to exert yourself in any way until I'm absolutely certain you're all right. That means no overtime, and no battles." He shook a finger in front of Prowl to emphasise his words.

Prowl scowled, but did not protest. "I see." He paused for a short while, staring at the diagnosis machine on his arm absently. "May I ask how I ended up in this state?"

"You don't remember yesterday?" Ratchet was not all that surprised. Even a normal mech could have memory gaps of the night before if they'd indulged in high-grade. If Prowl did not remember it wouldn't be all that odd, and nothing to worry too much about. Bigger memory losses would be an issue though.

"I remember… some things. Not all."

Ratchet pulled in air and straightened up, putting his hands on his knees.

"Well," he said, "I guess it all started with me not having the time to fix all your senses…"


End file.
